ittle--not much; they have been here
three days, and one can see----But the gentleman, he is generous. When
madame scolds, he gives me money to buy my forbearance; she has the
temper of a demon, the tongue of a veritable fiend!"

"Ah! He loves her, then!" said Auguste, putting his head on one side.

Lisette snapped her fingers. "Ah, oui! He loves her so well that he will
strangle her one of these days when she says a word too much and he is
in his sombre mood! Quiet as he is, I would not go too far with him, ce
beau monsieur! He will not be patient always--you will see!"

She went on her way, and the waiters remained at the window in the
corridor. The lady and gentlemen of whom they spoke had turned into the
hotel garden, and were walking up and down its gravelled paths,
apparently in silence. Auguste and Jean watched them, as if fascinated
by the sight of the taciturn pair, who now and then were lost to sight
behind a clump of trees or in some shady walk, presently reappearing in
the full sunshine, with the air of those who wish for some reason or
other to show themselves as much as possible.

This, at least, was the impression produced by the air and gait of the
woman; not by those of the man. He walked beside her gravely, somewhat
dejectedly, indeed. There was a look of resignation in his face, which
contrasted forcibly with the flaunting audacity visible in every gesture
of the woman who was his wife.

He was the less noticeable of the two, but still a handsome man in his
way, of a refined and almost scholarly type. He was tall, and although
rather of slender than powerful build, his movements were characterized
by the mingled grace and alertness which may be seen when
well-proportioned limbs are trained to every kind of athletic exercise.
His face, however, was that of the dreamer, not of the athlete. He had a
fine brow, thoughtful brown eyes, a somewhat long nose with sensitive
nostrils, a stern-set mouth, and resolute chin. The spare outlines of
his face, well defined yet delicate withal, sometimes reminded strangers
of Giotto's frescoed head of Dante in his youth. But the mouth was
partly hidden beneath a dark brown moustache; a pity from the artistic
point of view. Refinement was the first and predominating characteristic
of his face; thoughtful melancholy, the second. It was evident, even to
the most casual observer, that this man was eminently unfitted to be the
husband of the woman at his side.

For a